


Journey's End

by AraSigyrn



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-12
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AraSigyrn/pseuds/AraSigyrn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ah, Colonel!" said Holmes, arranging his rumpled collar. " 'Journeys end in lovers' meetings,' as the old play says. I don't think I have had the pleasure of seeing you since you favoured me with those attentions as I lay on the ledge above the Reichenbach Fall." - Empty House</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journey's End

The most important goal is to survive.

As I lay on the ledge, truly more dead than alive, that thought sustained me. Moriarty was dead and though I faced a reckoning, the animalistic joy of that memory was strong. He would not threaten my doctor again. That thought was uppermost in my mind when Colonel Moran found me.

I had notes on him; the inverted mirror of my own faithful biographer - and I knew his skills as well as his former employer had. Even if I had been able to muster the strength to resist, I would have been helpless against his strength in the narrow confines. He tore away my clothes, savage and primitive as the beasts he once hunted in India.

His hands were cold, clammy from the waterfall and grasping at each scrap of bared skin with hungry strength. His lust was up, fuelled by his rage and he was not gentle. He pawed at me, biting at my neck as he caged my wrists and pinned me to the stony ledge. He would have kissed me but sufficient freedom of movement remained to me to turn my head. He snuffled like a dog against my hair, already rutting against my torn trousers.

I thought to kick him, my revulsion momentarily overwhelming my determination but he was too quick, thrusting a leg between mine and forcing me to spread them so he could kneel on my thighs, pinning me so. One hand proved enough to keep my hands trapped and the other stroked down my chest in a parody of a lover's caress. He was cruel, twisting and pinching and grunting like a pig at every involuntary motion.

He managed to strip away my trousers, kneeling again on my thighs, forcing me to spread myself beneath him. He toyed with my prick, coaxing it with rough strokes to harden and laughing when it did. He mocked me, called me a whore, an invert and made crude comments regarding Watson. I did not care to respond, my energies already focused on survival.

When he began to bore of his game, I thrust against him. My willingness took him by surprise but he did not let me slip. I rocked up, straining against his weight to rub his lax fingers between my prick and his own hardening member. Moran grunted again and when I thrust a second time, he pushed back, fingers flexing as the friction mounted.

It was no easy matter, Moran's surprise still sharp but I managed to roll my hips and arch, achieving an urgent rhythm that he was helpless to resist. In minutes, he was shoving harshly against me, hand now splayed on my hip to hold me in a more pleasing position as he took his pleasure. The sounds he made were kin to an ape's and I had to struggle to hide my revulsion.

His climax took him at last, robbing him momentarily of his senses. I worked my way free, soiled and bloody but alive. I left him, insensible on the narrow ledge for his companions to find, and turned towards the rendezvous with Mycroft.


End file.
